Lemon Link
by Show-ki
Summary: That fateful rainy day, I needed to escape Mello's raging. It was also the one in which my life would change in various aspects, caused mainly by: a girl. A gun. A child. And a few stupid actions on my part.
1. A Gun, A Woman, A Child, and Mistakes

Lemon Link

Chap 1. A gun, a woman, a child, and mistakes.

_The sky poured, as if the clouds had been slit and were now bleeding out. Rivulets flowed with no particular path down the grooves in the grey pavement, bleached from years and years of sunlight and walking feet. The streets were mostly empty now, save for the occasional unfortunate pedestrian who would fumble to cover themselves from the little liquid bullets._

_A young man of maybe nineteen or twenty made his way down the flooded sidewalk, not caring as muddy water splashed up onto his faded jeans. He wore a loose vest of lamb skin, and underneath, a striped shirt clung to his lean figure. If one continued to examine this figure, the next thing you might notice was the red hair that fell into his face, diverted by a pair of orange goggles. The reflective glass of the lenses obscured the man's eyes, giving him a very uncaring, if not apathetic appearance. Between his thin lips a cigarette dangled precariously, put out by the rain._

–

Allow me to put it simply...he was– and always had been– a jerk. Making him happy...completely pleasing him was near impossible. But I suppose that's the way it was, and always will be.

Mello. Mello Mello Mello.

The only time he was even close to being happy with me was after we had sex. He would prop himself up on elbows, leaning over me, then plucking the cigarette from my lips and taking a drag. He would smile blithely, then ruffle my hair further. I would snatch my cigarette back, turning away. Because it was fake. All a precious little lie that once held my mind of glass together.

Sure. He knew that my past had messed me up– no one could ever deny it. I'll leave out the little fish-bone details, they're not really that important to the story. In any case, I was born from a one night stand between my prostitute mother and a customer of hers. I never bothered to try to look for him, either...what's important is that I was born in a bad environment, and when I was 4 years old, my mother died. I was taken to Wammy's, where I met Mello.

But I digress.

That fateful rainy day, I needed to escape Mello's raging. It was also the one in which my life would change in various aspects, caused mainly by: a girl. A gun. A child. And a few stupid actions on my part.

–

_A screech echoed from an alleyway– short, desperate. The young man stopped mid-step, peering into the dingy, dank ally._

_Crumpled on the asphalt was a young woman whose abdomen was swelled nearly to bursting. Above her stood a much, much larger man. His meaty fist was wrapped around the woman's throat, white with tension. Her mouth hung open, moving wordlessly, eyes wide with terror._

_The young man slipped into the shadow of a nearby dumpster, unnoticed in the darkness of the day._

"_Today, you are unlucky, Miss. Montague." said the monstrous man, his voice a crackling rumble._

"_Paid...already...sir..." The woman addressed as Montague choked out. The man's greasy brow tightened with anger, as he tightened his grip on the woman's neck with his sausage fingers._

"_No!" The man slammed the woman's head against the brick, a strangled cry slipping from her red lips._

_The young man's hands balled into fists, blanching as he clenched them tight. His thoughts were with his mother at that moment– tragically beautiful, so far along, and dying right before him. Just like that night so, so many years ago._

_His focus shifted back to the weak, crumpled creature, and the predator who now took out a sleek black item, which clicked as he stroked it._

_A gun, now cocked at the woman._

_This was when the first mistake occurred._

_The young man barreled into the attacker too early; resulting in being wounded himself. The giant slammed a beefy fist into the young man's gut, causing him to retch. Montague was scrambling to her feet, stumbling backwards. "Ah...Ah!" She gripped her swollen belly._

"_Stop!" bellowed the behemoth, flailing his gun around. He fired at the woman, hitting her in the chest, ceasing the beating of her heart. Her body crumpled against the wall like a rag doll._

_The younger man snarled, shattering his perfect mask of apathy. His lithe form twisted around, snatching the gun from the hand of the fat man. Whirling, he slapped the man in the temple, hard._

_Instant knock-out._

_He shed the weapon, stepping towards the corpse of Montague, whose auburn hair fell into her pale face like a shroud. He held up her chin, causing the hair to fall away._

_She was beautiful._

_Her face was that of a cherub's; round and childlike. Her lips, smeared with crimson, were perpetually pouty and heart shaped. Subtle, like every aspect of her...He liked how she looked. If she had been alive, he might have asked her on a date. However, she was clearly married, judging by the golden band around her–_

_A cry pierced the air, followed by a soft whine, and another cry._

_...Her baby had been born._


	2. Near To Your Heart

Chap. 2: Near To Your Heart

Needless to say, I took in the child. How could I have left the fragile thing there? It was a cold day for April, and the street was barren. Poor thing would have frozen to death.

Obviously, Mello was far from pleased.

"Take him to The House!" he shouted at me. "We can't take care of a child, Mail! I mean, look at it! It's a freaking **BABY**. Do you even know how to take care of one?"

"...uhhm...I'll figure it out?" I muttered unintelligibly.

"Think, stupid. It needs food, clothes and...and...y'know, baby stuff."

"And a name."

"..." Mello was silent for a long moment. "You're actually serious about keeping this little piece of shit?"

"Entirely."

The blond gave me a sour look, then spat, "It's your problem, then." He thrust the child towards me. Fumbling, I took it the tiny thing into my arms. It shifted slightly, eyes opening and closing slightly.

"Support it's head and ass. Stupid." muttered Mello, whose back was now turned, busying himself with something.

Moments later, a bottle of off-white liquid was flying at my face.

–

Weeks passed.

Mello– begrudgingly – had part in taking care of the still-nameless infant. Well, Technically nameless. In my mind, I had named him. To me, he was Near. He who had grown near to my heart, and would always be near to his mother's.

His mother...yes. I would sometimes find my thoughts on her. Pale, dead, and undeniably beautiful. Her son reflected her looks– white skin, cherubic features. The only difference were his eyes...silver-grey, swimming with curiosity. Not the doe's eyes Montague had had.

If Montague was even REALLY her name.

Mello had done some digging...this "Montague" woman (real name: Lucinda L. Rivers) had been the fiancee of the late Henry Nathan Rivers, an artist and writer from the U.K. The couple had lived in a large apartment in Boston, until his untimely murder 11 months previously. His fiancee, fearing for her life, had traveled to L.A under the name "Montague", hoping to throw the killers off.

Ultimately, she failed, dying alone and in debt.

"His name," Mello said one day, "Should be Nate."

I raised an eyebrow, looking up as he fell onto the couch. "You're awfully chipper today. Must be getting into this."

The blond gave me a dirty look. "Oh shut up. I'm in a good mood. Anyways, I can't always call it 'it' forever, can I? It's name is Nate now. So shush up."

I smirked at him. "Alright. Nate Rivers, eh?"

"Yeah."

"But he needs an alias. Keep in mind both his parents were murdered– even IF he's a baby... that doesn't mean he won't be a target, too."

"Okay, then. He can be Whitey. 'Cos he may as well be an albino."

"No. It's going to be Near."

Mello gave me his best Simon Cowell face. "...Why?"

"Because he's...uh..."

"Near to your heart? Dude. How corny can you get?" He smirked at me.

"...Shut up."


	3. Plans and Enrollment

Chap. 3: Plans and Enrollment

A year flew by without much notice...2, 3, 4...they all passed in the blink of and eye. Before either of us knew it, he was five years old.

Old enough for school, which brought up many arguments between Mello and I. He didn't want to send Nate off to a public school– it would be "dangerous" for a child of his standing, what with his parents being victims of murder. Not to mention the fact that he was naturally a genius. At 3 years old, he was reading elementary-level chapter books...at 4, his favorite author had become Lewis Carroll. Then, at 5, experimenting with Dickens and Twain.

Mello constantly whined, "Listen, Matt. What would a public school offer him? No challenge. At least a Montessori school...or..."

I would listen with begrudging agreement. "Or...?"

"The House."

I would sigh every time, then mutter, "No. That place has far too much pressure. Even if it uses Montessori-style classes."

He would then mutter a string of curse words, walking off. I'm sure it was probably bad for him to walk by Near while swearing the way he did. I'm surprised the poor kid wasn't brain-damaged.

After another argument one day, Near approached me. This was a rare occasion, as he usually kept to himself if he could help it. Unless of course I was nagging Mello and Near to sit at the table in a "family" setting. I digress.

"Matt," he said in his monotone voice, "I would much prefer to take classes via the internet."

"Ah...a-alright." The fact that he spoke like an adult still unnerved me a bit. Even if I was his 'father'. "But you won't get to be with other kids."

"...I hate other kids."

"..."

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The following week, Mello, Near and I found ourselves in a small room with crayon pictures and colorful posters all over the walls. A stout woman with an enthusiastic smile sat across the low table from us.

"Mr. Jeevas, Mr. Keehl, we are so glad you've registered Near here." She beamed at Near, who sat in a corner playing with one of his robots. "I'm sure he'll fit right in with all the other kids."

Mello and I exchanged a glance, then smiled a the woman.

"Oh, I'm sure he will..." I said nervously.

"Of course he will," Mello smiled confidently, strategically bullshitting his way through the situation. "Our Near will be just fine."

The stout woman shook our hands, her hands disturbingly cool and soft.

"Well, I am so glad to have met you two today. Here's a list of necessaries your son will need." Mello took the list, quickly folding it and stashing it in his pocket.

"We'll get on that right away. Thank you." We gathered our things, said our goodbyes, then left promptly.

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

"Target...acquired..." A laugh echoed through a large, empty room. The walls were grey and worn, pasted with pictures and scribbled drawings. A tall man stood in the center of the room, surrounded by multiple laptops, a beaten photograph clenched in white, skeletal hands. The man smiled, face splitting with disgusting blitheness. He pushed a hand through black, silken locks.

"At long last...my dearest, dearest. son." The man stroked the photo of the young child, a cherub of a little boy, cooing,"We will meet again...soon, soon...my little Nate."


	4. Little Shadows

Chapter 4: Little Shadows

On the first day of school, I woke up early to prepare Near's lunch. Despite his needy, gormet tastes, I fixed him a standard-issue kindergarten lunch: PB&J, milk, and an apple. Tucking it away in his Transformers backpack, I walked upstairs to wake him.

"Near," I cooed, peeking into the small, light-blue room. "Time to get up."

There was no movement from inside the small room. I sighed, shuffling in.

"Near, wake up." I shook him gently, shivering as cool air drifted through the open wind-

Wait.

The windows weren't open last night. I threw back the covers, ever cell of me screaming in panic as the blankets exposed a bed full of clothing heaped in a vague human shape. Desperately, I pulled the small t-shirts and shorts aside, hoping that I would find him.

I found nothing.

No. No. Nononononno. NO.

I knelt down under the bed, finding his Optimus Prime (the one that I bought for his last birthday) abandoned under his bed. Nothing otherwise. My hands shook as I picked up the toy, bent out of shape like a robot contortionist. It was all out of place. Something was off.

I could feel ice-cold fear setting in, it's frozen pins inserting themselves into my heart and turning my knotted stomach into icewater.

I searched the entire house with shaking hands, his robot clutched in my hands, knuckles white.

Where the HELL was my son?

Eventually, I headed back upstairs, panic clouding my mind. I threw open the door, shaking Mello desperately.

"Mello! Wake up!" I shouted. He just rolled, attempting to slap me.

"Go back to sleep, you stupid...pesashhzt..."

"MIHAEL!"

He cracked his eyes open, grumbling angrily "Waa th' hell d' ya want...?"

"I-I..." Tears began to fill my eyes as I spoke. My shoulders and hands shook uncontrollably as I barely managed to sob out, "I-I can't find Near!"

Mello sat up once he saw my tears. I didn't cry without reason.

"What."

"N-Near...I looked all over the house..."

Mello stared in confusion for a moment, still bleary from sleep. He blinked a few times before understanding the levity of the situation, face going white as a sheet.

"Gone?"

I nodded. "The window was open..."

Mello began to tremble, appearing more affected than I expected he would.

"Shit..." He breathed, his fists clenching. "So it begins..."

_Cold air bit the child's toes as he shifted in uncomfortable bed, small form curling in on itself. Somewhere in the room he could hear an old radio playing, a woman's high-pitched voice warbling as a orchestra played in the background. He could hear a male humming nearby, his voice a smooth, low-tenor. The child opened his eyes, observing the room surrounding him. _

_The room was mostly bare, walls nothing but stained, paneled wood. He lay in an old cot, wrapped in wool blankets that smelled of years of abandonment and richly of decaying wood. He brought the blanket up to his face in an attempt to warm himself before leaving the little heat that was in the bed. Judging by the feel of the bed, he hadn't been there for any more than half and hour. The boy stood, wrapping himself in a thin cotton quilt that had been carefully tucked into the bed and drawn up to his chin. _

_He shuffled across the worn floors of the shack, curling his toes as he did so. The smell of food was wafting from down a short hallway, and he was very hungry. As he headed into the room, he could hear the man's humming growing louder, along with the sound of the opera singer._

_"Dad?" The boy called, a cloud of steam escaping his lips as he did so, "Mello? Matt?"_

_The humming ceased, leaving the boy with a small feeling of fear laying in his core. "Dad?" He called once more, more meekly. It wasn't like him to shy...but something felt very, very wrong._

_"I'm here." said the voice softly, almost fondly. _

_The boy stepped into a small, cramped room filled with various objects; namely, opened and unopened jam jars laying about in every corner. Not to mention the dirty dishes with flies buzzing around them, haphazardly stacked wherever there was room. _

_By a small, dinky gas stove stood a tall man who stood hunched over, his thumb hanging from his lips. Pasty skin was illuminated by the cold light streaming through a window caked with dirt._

_"...Who are you?"_

_The man offered a kind, sickly sweet smile. "Why, Nate..." He held out his arms in welcome._

_"I'm your father, of course!"_


End file.
